


You Plus One

by Unloyal_Olio



Series: The One Where Derek Wants to Make Stiles His Mate and It's Blatant Porn [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Camp, College, Dirty Talk, Knotting, M/M, Mpreg, Werewolf!Stiles, art therapy, daddy has a gun, satyrs, shameless Breaking Dawn jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 18:39:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unloyal_Olio/pseuds/Unloyal_Olio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles didn’t beat around the bush. “Can werewolves get man-pregnant?”</p><p>Deaton dropped the cat he was holding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Plus One

**Author's Note:**

> I am delivering mpreg as promised. 
> 
> So. This begins with epic porn. It ends with family comedy.
> 
> It's quite campy, I think.
> 
> Thank you's to Home who gave me hilarious feedback on this... even if I _under no circumstances_ used the title she suggested.

Stiles was sitting, chin resting on his knees. He was buck naked except for a single sock. Beneath him Derek’s bed reeked of sex and more sex and super sex. And even if the smell didn’t offend him, the sheets were really gross. They should wash them.

On the other side of the bed, Derek was watching him. He did that a lot. Watched Stiles. Looked at him without focus, like Stiles was at best an ephemeral leprechaun or at worst a teenaged ghost. Now that Stiles was a werewolf, and he and Derek were soul-wrought mates and stuff, he could _smell_ that Derek’s staring wasn’t a bad thing. Necessarily.

“So this wasn’t just pick and choose, right?” Stiles broke the silent staring. “Like, was there some paranormal Mother Shepherdess watching out for you—and like, the webs of fate were so inter-tangled that there was no damn way of escaping our mutual life pattern? Because it occurred to me the other day, that I _like_ you now, but it’s not due to bountiful conversation making. It’s more a sex-crazed affection mixed with extreme hormone linkage. And the whole werewolf thing. Basically, like, I’m not sure a well-adjusted person would think well on this relationship.”

Derek was frowning in consternation. “ _Pick and choose?_ ”

Stiles groaned. “Did you hear a word I said after that?”

“No.”

“Speaking of _picking and choosing_ ,” Stiles grumbled.

“The bond doesn't work that way.”

“Which way?” Stiles leaned right. Then, when Derek continued to imitate a statue—he leaned left, narrowing his eyes at Derek the whole time.

“It’s more fundamental.”

Stiles waited, but Derek didn't elaborate, so he explained, “Using a vague, four-syllable word isn't going to cut it.”

Derek dropped his chin and glared. “How does the bond feel? To you?”

“Like I want to jump you. All the time.”

Derek pressed his forehead into his palm. “It doesn't feel that way _all the time_.”

Stiles reconsidered. “Uh, like I want to jump you all the time.”

“Oh.” Derek frowned.

“Don’t give me that face,” Stiles complained. 

Then, he went and jumped Derek.

\- - -

Here’s the thing about werewolf sex: Stiles almost always shifts. His canines extend. His eyes glow gold. Most of the symptoms are pretty similar to what Scott goes through—with just one critical difference. There have been changes _below_. Down there. In the place the sun no shine.

The first time he noticed it, Derek was being a blissed-out madman, and he was “having” Stiles on the kitchen floor. It happened because Stiles had been attempting to sneak some midnight brownies when Derek had awoken and decided to attempt round five for that evening. Thus, er, Stiles had his pajama pants yanked down. Derek was kneeing his inner thighs apart, and Stiles was complaining.

“Dude— _lube_.”

“You’re ready from earlier,” Derek said. Then he had raised his hand and slapped Stiles hard on the right cheek.

“Jackass!” Stiles tried to yell—except it was more of a _snarl-snarl_ because between Derek’s presence and the pain, Stiles instantly had shifted to wolf.

But then Derek, the big perv, was shoving his face into Stiles’s ass cheeks while grumbling mad were-man stuff against Stiles’s hole. Stiles caught choice phrases like, “fuck your cunt,” “slick just for me,” and “going to breed—going to stuff you full.”

“Nobody is _breeding_ anybody,” Stiles said in an exhausted tone.

Stiles was expecting Derek to see sense and get something lube-ish—even if it was the damn cooking oil—but no, all of the air collapsed out of Stiles’s chest as Derek slid right in.

And then Derek was fucking him, pushing him across the linoleum until Stiles hands were bracing them against the bottom of the dishwasher—and he kept thinking, _I’m going to get dry._

But he didn’t get dry. 

He got wetter. And wetter.

When Derek finally came, it was biting Stiles’s neck, and oh, God, he felt the knot swelling up. And to be clear, normally the knot did not feel super-duper. It felt like one giant hemorrhoid with an air pump attached, but this time it was...

Stiles relaxed into it. Honestly, he fucking reveled in the stretch.

Derek was still all crazy Paleolithic Geico spokesman, muttering, “Going to gourd you,” “pump you 'til you pop,” and something about Stiles being the “prettiest little bitch.”

Yeah, uh… _no._ They were going to have to talk about _respect_ at some point, but as for right now, Derek’s heavy weight was soothing, Stiles was google-goggled from his own orgasm, and lastly, part of Stiles (read: his wolf) straight up fucking adored the way he had reduced his alpha to gibbering incoherence.

Definitely, Stiles would smack down some Aretha later. Derek could use some Lady Franklin.

\- - -

So, right, that was the first time. A widdle wolf thing. Plus, it kind of made sense. Stiles hadn't taken the bite in the normal way. He was an alpha’s mate, what with the whole being fucked into his werewolf-hood, so he didn't necessarily assume his would be the cookie-cutter experience. And while he obviously did not want to turn into a reptilian instrument of terror like Jackson, nor did he expect to be a run-of-the-mill beta, like Scott and Isaac. Except that then the dreams started up.

He was in Derek’s apartment. Pizza, beer, and soda cans covered the coffee table and Derek was kissing his neck. It was one salty slow lick after the next, and Stiles was being driven to murderous thoughts. As in, Derek was only wearing cut-off cargos, and if Stiles didn't get inside of them _in the next fucking minute_ —there was going to be blood on the wall—which was why he shoved at Derek, twisting under his elbow so he could leap away and stand.

He wrenched down his own jeans and said, “I want it up against the wall.”

Derek shucked his shorts, and then he closed in, twisting Stiles by the shoulder and smashing him not up against the wall but up against the banister.

“This works too.” Stiles panted.

Derek scoffed, before running his thumb down the cleft in Stiles’s cheeks. “So ready,” he said. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

“If you don’t fucking shove it in there in the next ten seconds, it won’t be my fault when I kill you.”

In response, Derek pushed his thumb in, and maybe Stiles was sorer than he’d anticipated, but that was okay because he was _past due_. He could feel how wet he was. There was a cold, tickling sensation as the fluid smeared out and down his inner thighs.

Derek was making whining noises. His hands were fumbling, big, awkward paws, like he couldn’t believe this was happening, and then it was push and shove—and um, fuck, _pain_ like someone had punched him in the ass—which was weird, but Stiles was rolling with it. Because when Derek thrust up, it hit just _so_.

Stiles realized at some point that he was biting the banister. Fang marks in the wood. Shit. _This_ was why they couldn’t have nice things.

“I love you,” Derek was saying. “I love you. Damn it, Stiles.”

Say what?

Stiles tried to process that and _respond_ , but his words came out as snuffling, squeaking, moaning nonsense because he was going to come so fast. His own dick was jerking uncomfortably against the round rails even as his forearms were bracketed on the banister, and it had been too long and—

He came.

Derek was pounding, still causing Stiles to grip on for dear life—when he heard it—a crying sound down the hall.

“Fuck,” Derek gasped, and he went harder, faster.

The wailing—definitely a baby—continued.

Derek came not ten seconds later, shaking, and gripping onto Stiles’s hips for dear life. But even then he was saying, “Go relax on the couch. I’ll get her.”

Dream-Stiles said, “She’s impatient.”

Derek laughed and said, “Just like you.” And then he went down the hall.

\- - -

Stiles woke up in a puddle of sweat.

And then he felt down between his legs. Not just sweat—and um, not “other” potentially gross body fluids. No, the fluid was clear and sticky—definitely not normal y-chromosome human male fluid. It was fucking lubricant.

But also, when he brushed his hand down there...

Insanely sensitive. Touching his own hole felt particularly dangerous, like it could spark and shock him dead at any moment. Also, his dick was charged. Ready for serious action.

He texted Derek. _Are you outside my window?_

Derek replied. _On my way._

Sexy creeper.

Stiles started without him. He had three fingers in and was considering coming all by his lonesome when Derek slinked in through his window.

For a minute, Derek just watched. His eyes were a muted and distant red, like mirror images of the planet Mars through the telescope.

“I want your knot,” Stiles said before he could really think about why.

But Derek was undoing the front of his pants. He didn’t take them off, just pulled them down enough so that his dick was free, and then he was kneeling behind Stiles, grabbing his hips, taking control.

Sliding in was frictionless. Stiles was so fucking wet. The wettest he’d ever been. As Derek plowed into him, Stiles idly thought, _Asses didn’t do that. They didn’t get wet. Vaginas did._ Except then he brushed the thought away, because he was a _boy_.

But then well, Derek was talking like a porn star hick again, with Stiles’s “dripping pussy” being the major theme.

“Don’t have a fucking _pussy_ ,” he complained, even as he jerked back against Derek.

“It’s mine. I’m going to fill it until you’re stuffed with—my—spunk. I’m going to breed you until you can’t—fucking—walk.” Derek was thrusting with each word.

“Such—a—sw-sweet talker,” Stiles moaned out, but there was no bite to his words. He was completely, pathetically into this.

The caveman comments continued, and Stiles should have been irritated, but instead the words went straight to his dick and he came—spilling everywhere—

Derek was still going—slamming him up against the window glass—causing his breath to fog in lip-smeared patches—

When the knot started to burn, Stiles came a _second_ time.

Yeah, the knot stung a little, but Stiles was gibbering his own bullshit _(I want every last drop) (only your knot) (next time harder)_ , and then they were locked and kissing and Stiles’s brain cells were sparking and popping and generally fizzling into electrocuted static.

Derek was staring at him again like Stiles was his childhood imaginary friend.

So when Stiles kissed him again, it was with a pinch and a bit of pain.

He wanted Derek to know he was real.

\- - -

Later Stiles dismissed the dream. It was the whole werewolf thing.

Also, mind numbing amounts of amazing sex were so, so distracting.

\- - -

The self-lube thing continued to happen—like if he morphed into beta form first—he got slick back there and the knot took better. Better yet, sometimes the knot had a way of forcing him to come twice.

Stiles was kind of getting _emotionally_ attached.

So the lower-level changes... Stiles didn’t really over-think them. About what they could mean. It wasn’t something he was going to talk to Scott about, and well, talking to Derek about it wasn’t that helpful either, because the most Stiles had ever gotten out on the subject was two sentences before Derek was insisting on _seeing_ , and then Stiles was on his knees again, which... Ahhhhhh.

But then the full moon came. They were in the woods (safety first, kids) for Stiles’s first change, and they brought supplies—some silver handcuffs. Mountain ash to keep Stiles locked in.

None of the equipment was necessary. Stiles didn’t change into a ferocious beast.

No, what he did was attack Derek.

By “attack him,” Stiles meant that he grabbed onto him, biting him everywhere—like they were play fighting, except that Stiles was whining and when possible, shoving his ass in Derek’s face, or grinding his dick against any available part of Derek that gave friction.

But Stiles’s wolf didn’t care. It was clawing at Derek, licking at him while tearing at any available piece of fabric. Derek growled when Stiles’s nails sliced too deep, but he never once tried to control Stiles. He never once said, “Stop.”

And then Stiles was ripping off his own clothes. He was embracing the cold wind and then the fever from Derek’s body, and he was greedy—just fucking out of his mind with want—when he got down on all fours, arched his ass, and keened for it.

Derek stared.

Stiles stared back. In fact, he held Derek’s gaze as he squatted back on his finger. It slid in so easily. And the _sensation._ His breathing was stuttered as he started bearing down, rocking back and forth on his own fingers.

Derek tackled him from behind. And Stiles was laughing, a chuffing moon-mad set of noises that were cut off when his face plummeted into the dirt.

Derek plowed in.

And fuck—the stretch—

Stiles couldn’t even feel it this time. He was shaking and in the sky overhead, that white bastard of a space rock was laughing down at him. Because when white light coated Derek’s skin, it did something to Stiles. It was as if it drew the magic out of his pores and sent it flooding down Stiles’s nostrils: evergreen forest musk and just oh-fuck honey sweetness and oily slick butter that made him want to lick.

So that’s what he did: he licked and bit and fucked and howled as Derek took him over and over again.

\- - -

When Stiles woke up the morning after, he was sore. His body was definitely still healing. He was in his bed with the quilt tucked up around him. He smelled like sex but there wasn’t any spunk crusted on him, so there had been a washcloth at some point. Stiles sniffed himself. 

Derek. He’d brought Stiles here and cleaned him up.

Stiles smiled, because um, Derek being sneakily caring was rather sweet, also, last night was fun, and who’d have thought? The moon turned Stiles into a sex machine, apparently.

But then he was tired and sleepy from all the healing, so he snuggled into his pillow and went back to dozing.

\- - -

This time the dream was of him standing over a baby. A little girl named after Derek’s mother.

Derek was changing her diaper while humming some soft tune. The baby trying to grab his fingers, but he was too quick, too patient.

“She loves you,” dream-Stiles said. “We both do.”

“I can accept that now,” Derek said, and flipping the baby into the crease of his arm, he kissed her. Then he kissed Stiles.

\- - -

When he woke up the next morning, it was because his dad was shaking him awake. “Time for school.”

“What?”

“School fifteen minutes. Go.”

Jesus, had long had he slept?

Stiles made himself walk to the bathroom. The door had just closed when his lower abdomen gave a lurch.

Stiles looked at himself in the mirror.

He looked terrible.

His stomach was bloated, like he was…

Werewolves didn’t get sick.

Unless Derek’s cream was poisoned.

Which it wasn’t. Stiles would have been dead by now.

But then he started thinking about the changes—about how his lower area changed sometimes—and a new horrifying thought crept into his head.

His eyes widened as he glared at his reflection. His tummy was totally puffed. Yet this could not be happening. He was not having a Breaking Dawn moment. He just wasn’t. He was not Bella. Even if he was werewolf-married. Sort of.

“You are not a little nudger,” Stiles informed his stomach with confidence.

There was no response. No creepy Ridley Scott alien worm wiggle. Really, his stomach looked perfectly flat. It may not be a bumpy, lick-the-rivets washboard like Derek’s, but he was definitely sporting a toned four-pack.

He made himself take a calming breath. Then another.

He was finally getting a handle on things when his stomach started to churn and then roll like a hamster wheel.

Luckily he was able to get the toilet lid up before he puked.

\- - -

Stiles spent the whole school day being freaked out, because he could have dismissed the sickness as a fluke of the full moon, except for one thing: his cravings. 

Or the lack thereof.

Stiles hadn’t thought about sex the entire morning. In fact, for the first time in a month, he was thinking about other non-Derek things. Like how he was supposed to go to college in the fall, and even if he was just on the middle-class suburban kid’s path to a liberal arts degree—he did _like_ school.

Oh, and huh, he and Derek had never talked about the whole college thing.

Also, Stiles still needed to tell his dad. His dad knew about werewolves. Scott had demonstrated last year. The Sheriff even knew about Derek. But Stiles was uncertain how he would react to the whole “mate” thing—about how Stiles was a wolf now too.

God, he needed to deal with that.

In the meantime, Stiles was going to see Deaton.

\- - -

Stiles didn’t beat around the bush. “Can werewolves get man-pregnant?”

Deaton dropped the tom cat he was holding.

The pan-faced puss landed on all fours and scowled, but Deaton was slow in picking him back up. The veterinarian’s eyes were averted as said, “It’s unlikely—”

Stiles’s shoulder dropped in relief.

“—but there is legend that could suggest its possibility.”

Stiles’s head was swimming. His hand searched for the edge of the counter to grip. “And just what kind of _legend_?”

Deaton scratched behind the cat’s ears. “I need to know why you’re asking. Your situation is unique. You’re an alpha’s mate, and he doesn’t have a large pack or family. What are your symptoms?”

Stiles focused on the angry cat. It was to his grump-face that he said, “I’ve noticed that things are different down there. Um, different fluid. Especially when I wolf-out. Otherwise, I’ve been pretty obsessed with Derek—but that doesn’t seem that weird. There have been some trippy dreams. But mostly, this morning I started puking. A lot. I’d say it’s the stomach flu, except—”

Deaton finished for him. “—except wolves don’t get the flu or colds or sick at all. It’s possible that it has to do with full moon last night…”

“That would be possible,” Stiles eagerly agreed.

Deaton nodded and then reached for the box of rubber gloves. “We need evidence, not suppositions. I’ll need to do an examination.”

“And by ‘examination,’ I’m sorta scary-thinking that you might be referring to shoving a scope up my rectum?”

Deaton’s face was 100% stoic doctor man. “It will have to be while you’re in your beta form.”

Stiles whimpered when Deaton pointed a finger toward the exam table.

\- - -

Stiles wolfed out by thinking about Derek. But it was all so deeply uncomfortable.

Because Deaton was looking up his bung hole.

He was healed, so it’s not like yesterday night’s activities were on display, and well, Deaton was being professional, telling Stiles what he was doing, step by step, but Stiles was all too aware that Deaton was some voodoo veterinarian and not like a board-registered obstetrician. Not that an obstetrician would help Stiles right now. But still.

Deaton had his flashlight-probe gizmo out. He was looking way up there when Stiles smelled the sudden shock.

“What?” he demanded.

“It’s probably nothing.” Deaton’s heart was beating faster than a bird’s.

“Lying to a werewolf, not really useful.”

Deaton sighed. “Well, it’s as you said before. In your wolf form, you have some internal rearrangement of the reproductive organs. There seems to be a hermaphroditic evolution taking place. The normal canal diverges into what I’d term a cloacal divide. One passages goes to what I suspect is a womb.”

Stiles swallowed. Deaton wasn’t lying this time. Actually, he sounded weirdly fascinated, which was equally disturbing. “So I could—it’s a possibility?”

Deaton was nodding awkwardly at him. “I think we’ll need you to do a urine test. It probably means nothing, but we want to cover all our bases.”

\- - -

Stiles was in the bathroom, pissing on the stick when outside in the clinic, he heard a _roar_.

Huh. He’d been too distracted to hear him come in. Derek was here.

Stiles opened the door to see Deaton pinned up against the wall. Derek was in beta form but his fangs were out. He was snarling in Deaton’s face.

“Derek, put him down. Now.”

Derek turned to glare at Stiles with menacing alpha eyes. “He smells like—he touched you—the scent on the gloves—”

“Because I _asked_ him too.”

Wrong choice of words. Derek froze and his left lip curled up, showing off an elongated, glistening canine. It really looked like he was going to eat Deaton.

“For _medical reasons_ , saber tooth! I was having questions about... _down there_ , and he was helping me. So let him go, like, five minutes ago.”

Derek gave Deaton the hairy eyeball for another long second, but at last he let go.

“It’s all right,” Deaton said, pushing himself back up the wall. “It’s understandable that Derek would be upset over his mate’s safety. Stiles, you probably should have included him from the get go.”

“What are you doing here?” Derek was glaring at Stiles. And weirdly, it was like Deaton said—he smelled _unhappy_.

“I felt sick today. My stomach, well, lower abdomen, was weird, and I’d noticed some changes... um, like how when we, um,—” Stiles looked awkwardly over at Deaton who was pretending to sponge the countertop. “—we used to use lube, and lately, it never seems necessary.”

Derek’s eyes widened slightly, but then he was up in Stiles’s grill, sniffing.

“You smell—” He looked down, glaring at the stick in Stiles’s hand.

“Oh, that was just a test...” But holding up the sick, Stiles saw the little indicator. It was blue. Fucking blue.

It was supposed to stay yellow.

Stiles may have meeped.

“Oh, that’s not good,” Deaton said from the other side of the room.

“What is not good?” Derek demanded.

“This is all your fault,” Stiles complained. He was shaking, because Jesus fucking Christ—this could not be possible. Blue meant _baby_. And how could he be generating a baby? How was he even going to _store_ it? And more importantly, even if he could, how the fuck was he going to get it _OUT_?

Derek looked terribly confused. “What’s my fault?”

Because, yes, Ye Mighty Inseminator, _that_ was what mattered right now. Stiles couldn’t find words. They weren’t there. Instead, he tried to punch Derek.

Derek caught his wrist. “ _Stiles_.”

Stiles attempted to knee him in the balls.

Derek ended up pinning him to the counter.

“What is wrong with him?” Derek was asking Deaton.

Stiles couldn’t answer. Stiles was snarling and pissed and _pregnant_.

“Based upon the test result, it would appear that Stiles is... expecting.” Deaton chuckled nervously.

“And _what_ is he expecting?” Derek’s tone had gone high.

Stiles tried to rip out Derek’s throat. For reasons.

Seeing Stiles reduced to savagery, Deaton lost his doctoral patience. “A _baby_. You knocked him up. His hormone levels have already skyrocketed. That’s why he’s trying to kill you.”

Derek whimpered. Once.

Stiles attempted to claw him.

Didn’t work, because with a pop, Derek morphed into a fully formed wolf.

\- - -

It took a while for both Stiles to calm down and Derek to change back into a human. In the meantime, Deaton squeezed a stool between them. While alternating scratching Derek’s ears, he was genially talking about the importance of folate. “If you could have bone broth with dark leafy greens, that would be ideal,” Deaton was saying. “It’s possible you’ll have stranger than normal cravings. Your body is going to have to work harder than a female’s to produce the necessary hormones.”

“I already eat those—for my dad,” Stiles mumbled. He was pretty much an old hand at vinegar and collards at this point. “I like chard with goat cheese and lemon. Am I really—is this real?”

Derek whined.

Deaton went quiet. It occurred to Stiles that as a veterinarian, he’d probably never had to tell a “client” that she was pregnant before. Much less a _he_. Still, Deaton put on his neutral face and said, “You’re right, Stiles. We could be getting ahead of ourselves. We’ll need to do more tests… If your anatomy has shifted _back_ , there’s no way a pregnancy would be viable.”

“Whatever. Do it,” Stiles grumbled.

So, Deaton did another exam. Derek growled with a low rumble through the whole process, besides staring at Stiles with intense concentration. At one point, he nosed at Stiles’s fingers, but given that Stiles had a scope up his rectum, he popped a finger on Derek’s nose and pushed him away.

Derek made a whimpering sound.

“No. You are not the wounded puppy here.” Stiles cringed as Deaton put the scope in a rather _tender_ spot. “I am the one who is wounded, and if there’s any puppy, it’s definitely in my camp.”

After that, Derek sat with his snout on his paws and his tail curled around his hind.

Deaton finished a few minutes later. “The um, new canal seems to be stable, even in human form. It’s blocked off at the moment, which is biologically necessary to keep—”

“—bathroom duties separate. Got it. Except I wish I didn’t. Also, how many?”

Deaton and Derek simultaneously cocked their heads to the side. 

“Is it just _one_ baby? Or am I going to pop out a litter? I want all the horrors revealed _now_.”

Deaton’s mouth dropped open. He looked deeply disturbed. “We’ll need to do an ultrasound… in a few weeks.”

Stiles took a big, brave breath. “Got it. Now, I am going to cry.”

He snotted into his sleeve.

\- - -

Stiles spent the next day glaring at his dick.

It had failed him.

Also, Stiles was still rip-roaringly pissed at Derek. That’s why he locked his window and texted him:

_If you come within ten feet of me today, I might kill you._

When Stiles looked out his window, Derek was sitting there, exactly ten feet from the sill.

He let Derek in though, after Stiles realized he’d spent the past eight hours googling baby names.

He needed to tell Derek. “We’re not finding out the sex. I don’t want to know. It doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl.”

Derek’s eyes widened in horror, but to his credit, he didn’t disagree. If anything, he appeared to be relieved that he was allowed to touch Stiles again.

Said “touch” was Stiles permitting Derek to give him a lengthy foot rub.

\- - -

Otherwise, for the next month they didn’t talk about it. Stiles was still more or less in a state of denial, because like werewolves and witches and even homicidal lizards as tools of ancient vengeance seemed more believable than the possibility of a _baby_.

Also, he kept doing weird things. Lots of cleaning. When Derek was being extra clingy and following Stiles into the bathroom, Stiles didn’t yell at him about it. Rather, he burst into tears.

Deaton said he was “nesting.” Well, besides building a baby.

Just one. The ultrasound said so.

That was a cause for momentary celebration.

The dreams kept coming. Every night. They were little teasers in which all was hunky dory. Perfect worlds in which you could write father twice on a birth certificate, fill in both names, skip the mother, and no one would call the CDC.

Sometimes Stiles would wake up and Derek would be staring into his eyes, his lips were shaping Stiles name, and Stiles’s hand were on his stomach, braced like they were clutching something that wasn’t there.

“Are you okay?” Derek asked.

“No, I’m pregnant,” Stiles answered.

But Derek wouldn’t say a word after that. All he did was crawl on top of him.

“You’re heavy, and I’m not going to float away.”

“You might,” Derek said.

“These days, I’ve got ballast,” Stiles grumbled.

\- - -

Right, and his dad. If Stiles had been paying more attention, he would have realized that Derek had eaten dinner at his house for the fourth night in the row. But because he was in an addled state—he didn’t notice the way that his dad was looking back and forth from him to Derek, frowning with a cocked eyebrow.

After Derek left, using the front door and everything, his dad pretty much dragged him into the living room.

“I thought we said this wasn’t going to happen again.”

“Nothing is happening. I’m fine. Everything is fine. Do you want to watch the game? You should have a beer. You’ve only had one this week—you’ve got two more before you’re past quota.”

“Sit down.”

Stiles slumped into a couch pillow.

“Yep. It’s totally happening again,” his dad said, mostly to himself, because the last time they’d had this conversation it had been a year and a half ago, when he’d filled his dad in on the whole werewolf thing.

“Sorry,” Stiles said, but it came out muffled because he was burying his face between the divide in the couch cushions.

“I’m guessing this isn’t about how you’re dating Derek?”

And that caused Stiles to wrench his face upright.

His dad had his brow furrowed. “Last year, all you could talk about was him for three weeks—then, you were furious and stomping around. A big letdown, I figured, but you moved on, and then this past month, it started up all over again, except that his time, you are over the legal age of eighteen and Derek keeps showing up to eat our nutritionally-balanced, low-fat, low-sodium delights. You think I wouldn’t draw the logical conclusion from that?”

Of course his dad would have. Stiles was just so crazy mixed up in his own world that he wasn’t paying attention to his own family. “You never said anything.”

“But that’s not what this is…” His dad’s face was assessing. “Because you’re not talking—not about this—so this is…”

“Nothing. You shouldn’t worry about me. You have enough to worry about—how’s the red tape at work?”

“Subject change. Really, Stiles? It’s _that_ bad.”

Stiles did not want to talk about this. But then he kind of did. Or wait, no, he really didn’t.

His father’s eyes softened. “You’re a wolf now.”

Stiles was looking for hurt or anger or judgment. Definitely judgment, but then he always underestimated his dad, because here they were, and the only expression that Stiles could discern was worry. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said.

His dad came over and sat down next to him. “It’s a shock. Not going to lie.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want you being sorry for that. It was always a chance while you were running around with the pack. Now, I love you, but I need to know. Did you hurt anyone? Is that what this is about? You changed and attacked someone?”

“Oh—geez—no.” And the relief in Stiles’s voice was plain, because at least this mess just involved him—and Derek. He didn’t have to live with guilt like Jackson’s.

“So if it’s not that…?” His father waited.

Stiles couldn’t bring himself to say it.

The sheriff was looking more and more freaked out. “Okay—so here’s what we’re going to do. Remember when your mom died? And how you were talking all the time? But you weren’t talking about her? You were like a hurricane, circling its eye, but never really getting there?”

“You made me see a therapist.” 

“And she had you draw pictures. That worked. So let’s do that.” And Stiles didn’t move a muscle as his dad went and got a piece of paper and a pen and placed them side-by-side on the coffee table in front of him.

“I’m going to make a call while you draw me a story board—or an idea web—or something,” his dad said, and left Stiles by himself as he went into the kitchen.

Stiles stared at the page for a good few minutes. But then he picked up the pen, and he drew himself. With a bump.

Then he drew Derek with a knotted lasso fitted over Stiles—because that was kind of funny, except that Stiles never fucking ever wanted his dad to know about that. So he erased the lasso.

Next there were big sparking wedding rings over the two of them, and lastly there were the faces, all wearing sticky-figured expressions of shock. They were looking down at the bump. At the baby in Stiles’s were-womb.

Then he leaned back. He looked at the picture with another person’s eyes.

Which instigated a freak-out.

He was working on ripping the paper up with his claws when his dad came into the room—said “ _Stiles_ ” in that voice and took the crumpled remnants from him. “I’m going to tape this back together. That is, unless you want to _tell_ me.”

Stiles shook his head, but he also didn't protest when his dad collected all of the pieces, then painstakingly arranged and taped them back together. Then there was staring. Long minutes of silence followed. His father’s jaw worked.

“This can’t be what I’m thinking.”

“It’s what you’re thinking,” Stiles said the words through the slots in his fingers.

“That’s a baby.”

“On the way.”

“You have a bump. Meaning _in_ you.”

Stiles was too wiped to react. “I don’t really like thinking about it.”

“This is a werewolf thing? It has to be.”

Stiles nodded.

His father made a choked noise, cringing. “And the father is Derek.”

Stiles didn’t nod, but his dad was nodding anyway. “Ohhhkay—” He took a breath through gritted teeth.

Because the Mother Shepherdess hated Stiles, Derek chose this moment to reenter the Stilinski household.

“You,” the Sheriff growled, stepping towards him.

It was kind of amazing that Derek didn’t back off by an inch.

Still, this could escalate. “Dad—not his fault. My suddenly growing a baby pouch was just not on anyone’s radar. Okay?”

The Sheriff was staring across the room, where his gun was glinting on the end table. “Condoms.” 

“Uh, Dad. Don’t get trigger-happy. Also, with the full moon—not that you need to know this—but it gets a little frantic. Like I’m not sure either Derek or I could spell our names much less put on a—”

His dad snapped up a hand. “Not a word more. Please.”

“I—okay. Shutting up.”

“Here’s how I see things. Stiles, you’re deeply upset. And pregnant. You—” The Sheriff’s neck was corded as he hissed, “Chris Argent told me where he keeps the wolfsbane bullets, and if my son isn’t functioning like his normal manic self by the time I get back…” Stiles’s dad let the threat linger.

Derek blinked before nodding.

“Okay.” Then his dad marched into the kitchen. Stiles heard the sound of the scotch bottle being pulled off the back shelf before he headed out to the backyard.

He didn’t blame his dad for a second.

Across from him, Derek picked up Stiles’s “artwork.” His expression melted into a deep frown.

Stiles did not deserve that frown. “I drew that for my dad. Not for you.”

“I know.” Derek’s expression didn’t change, though.

A long minute passed. Painfully long. They were just sitting there, and Stiles didn’t want to just sit there. He picked up a crayon and drew, “What do you want?”

Derek drew a “U.”

“What about the…?” He patted his stomach, without looking up from the paper.

Derek’s shoulders dropped. He picked up the crayon and he wasn’t writing or drawing anything, just making useless swirls. “Babies are… I don’t really like them. They don’t like me, either.”

“Oh.”

“But you want it.”

Stiles did want it. Or at the least, he didn’t not want it. He may not want the situation. He may not be happy with the W-E-I-R-D that was possessing his life, but he also knew himself. He knew his limits. He wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if he ended this. It was that simple.

“You don’t have to stick around if you hate babies that much,” Stiles grumbled.

Derek whipped around to glare at him. “I won’t leave. You can’t make me.”

“Then what is your deal? You realize that you put this in here, and so now I’m not just Stiles anymore. I’m like one-and-a-half.”

Derek looked down at Stiles’s stomach. He pouted.

Something finally clicked. “Are you jealous of the baby?”

“No,” Derek said. Too quickly. His heart did that LIAR-LIAR-LIAR stutter thingy.

Stiles groaned. “You realize how pathetic that is?”

“It’s taking you away from me.”

“We’re going to talk about secure attachment issues later. For now, practical stuff. I start college next month. What are we going to do about that?”

“I found three apartments for us. I have print-outs if you want to look at them,” Derek said.

“Oh.”

“Is that okay?”

“It’s…” Stiles took a breath. “It’s fine. I shouldn’t stay in a dorm anyway.” He ran his hand across his stomach.

Derek glared.

\- - -

The next month, Stiles started college. His dad grumbled a lot as he moved Stiles into his new apartment with Derek. Scott and Isaac were roommates in a freshman dorm. Jackson had a single. Erica, a year behind them, was still an hour’s drive away in Beacon Hills. Boyd had decided to take a year off. Lydia was at Caltech while Allison was up north at Berkeley.

Derek was weirdly helpful in the kitchen. Stiles would get the pot of greens boiling while Derek breaded and fried calf’s liver (which Deaton had recommended for Stiles’s “gestation”) or chicken or steak. Stiles wasn’t the best at remembering when to take things out of the oven/pan, but Derek seemed to run on an internal clock. Everything was cooked at exactly the right temperature when Derek was in the kitchen.

Derek watched a lot of sports. During the days, he got a part time job at a gym around the corner. Stiles was having some serious hate feelings for his freshman writing class, while totally loving on his biology class. He had a good prof for Calc II, so it didn’t cause him too much trouble.

The dreams got a little better.

When the full moon came, it was the first time he wanted Derek again.

They didn't leave the apartment. Instead, Stiles pushed him back on the bed and pressed into him, reveling in the warmth, the smell, simply _wanting_ in the way he hadn’t for a long while.

Derek’s kisses were so tender, even hesitant, in the way that they seemed like miniature apologies.

He didn’t knot Stiles. Not a conscious choice. Probably the damn pheromones.

But afterwards, when moon lust tapered off, Derek didn’t move off of him.

When Stiles finally insisted on separating, ‘cause they were oozing grossness—Derek said, “I missed you.”

Stiles unburied his face from his pillow. “You mean you missed this.”

“No, I missed you.”

“I never left,” Stiles said. He turned over in the sheets.

\- - -

He told the pack one at a time.

Scott flipped, naturally.

But then once he was settled, he bought Stiles pizza—no beer—and then declared, “I’ll be Uncle Scotty!”

“You’re such a dumbass.”

“Wait. Dude. Is Deaton going to C-section it or…?” His eyes went gold with horror.

His face made Stiles laugh for the first time in weeks.

\- - -

The first time he felt the baby move Stiles was in Calc.

His professor was talking about Taylor series, and Stiles’s hand was sliding under his sweat shirt.

He felt it again as the baby shifted.

 _You’re there_ , Stiles thought. Then, _I love you._

God, he was terrified.

\- - -

It had never occurred to him that babies actually scared Derek. He’d assumed that the bad baby-chemistry was an excuse for the jealousy, but then again, Derek didn’t look like the type of person you’d just hand a baby to. The _I-only-wear-black_ in combination with the ripped body just really didn’t generate loads of cuddly oxytocin, you know?

But then one day—it was a week before Christmas—Isaac and Scott put their heads together to hatch a plan, so when Stiles opened the door, there was Isaac. With a baby.

“This won’t work,” Stiles said, but he totally took the baby out of Isaac’s arms, because the little dude was dressed in a Mao costume of all horrible get-ups. “Also, how’d you by this baby? Unless you have a secret Chinese girlfriend?”

“I’m an excellent babysitter,” Isaac defended. “And this is Jao. He’s my professor’s kid.”

Little Jao was totally smiling at Stiles. He didn’t have any of his teeth yet, and so when the little menace dived for Stiles’s finger, he let him suck on it.

Then Derek came into the room. He stared at little Jao.

Little Jao whimpered.

“It’s just Derek. He’s not really the big bad wolf. He just likes to pretend,” Stiles baby-talked.

Derek cocked a brow.

Jao burst into wails.

Derek turned around and walked back into the bedroom.

“Oh,” Isaac said.

Stiles patted Jao’s back, shushing him. “You, Jao, and I can go for a walk.” 

Getting out of the house was a good idea, no matter the fact that Stiles's ankles were swollen and his energy level was rock bottom.

\- - -

The nice thing about being eight months preggers during the winter was that Stiles could hide it. Plus, he didn’t look like a pregnant woman. No, he looked… fat.

Man, he hated it.

Stiles was kind of mentally prepared for things. As in, he, Mrs. McCall, and Deaton had a plan worked out. The pack had given him a baby shower, so they had the necessary “stuff.” 

Just Derek.

Because even if Derek was ridiculous in taking care of Stiles—everything that was baby-specific was treated with contempt. When the crib arrived, he’d refused to take it out of the box. After Scott and Isaac assembled it, Derek had covered it with a blanket.

No joke, he “pre-washed” the baby clothes with bleach.

And mostly, he refused to look at Stiles above the knees or below the waist.

When Stiles complained about this—to the baby—Derek put on headphones.

\- - -

Then the satyrs invaded.

The first sign was the sudden influx of country music on a campus music scene that was mostly into rock or hip-hop with local folk being the slowest that things got.

But um, this wasn’t folk. It was more like grunge-pastoral?

Stiles found this out from Scott. Because Stiles had texted Scott until he came over.

Derek was watching some sports-something on the TV in the living room, so Stiles dragged Scott into the baby’s room to play Skylanders.

“I’m in the mood for purple dragons, and since I’m twice my usual size. I will brook no arguments about it.”

Scott nodded absently.

This was the first time Stiles realized Scott wasn’t all there upstairs.

Stiles poked him. “And you weren’t drunk or drugged? No one slipped you any purple flowers?”

“Not purple flowers… I just—I needed to belong.”

Was he talking about a frat? “You want to rush?” 

“I went to this party—at a lounge. I think I line-danced.” Scott swallowed before shivering.

“Was it a theme night?”

“No.” And Scott looked so sad.

Stiles made him play Skylanders until everything was okay again.

\- - - 

Then the dead bodies started showing up. They were missing feet. All of them.

Stiles wondered, since he was a werewolf now, if his feet would grow back. Like Derek had said his arm would that one time. But maybe not. Given that he had to pee on the hour and anything he ate was coming out in liquid form, he wasn’t sure that his body was remotely concerned with healing anything. It was baby-focused. Completely.

He was walking home from his one class that semester when he heard the strumming.

Stiles had a headache.

Bastards needed to cut the volume.

But then the strumming started to _follow_ him.

He was passing the post office when there was the clip-clop of hooves.

Stiles turned around to see a man dressed entirely in brown and holding a lyre. Notably, he had hooved feet. “Yes?” Stiles inquired.

“Did you not hear my song?” Modern-day Pan looked quite put out about Stiles’s lack of enthusiasm. Also, absurdly menacing with his too-big cubed teeth.

“You are the reason people keep missing their feet,” Stiles realized aloud—which maybe wasn’t the best announcement to make. But also, he just really wanted to get home and have a cup of tea. 

“What is this you say?” Pan did a tap-dance on the sidewalk.

“You know what I said, you little satyr man.” And to make his point: Stiles shifted into his beat form. “Now leave me alone before I rip your throat out.”

“Gawds! It’s Cerberus,” Pan tittered.

Stiles was about to lunge when suddenly there wasn’t just Pan—but like a whole little gang of short, brown men.

“Derek!” Stiles yelled, as loud as he could. The growl at the end of it reverberated—would continue to reverberate as far as their apartment. Or at least, Stiles hoped it would.

But around him, the strumming had started back up. Stiles was throwing punches, but then the rhythm started to seep in, nestling into his skin. If they killed him—they would also kill—

Stiles went for the lyre. Pan-dude wasn’t ready for that. It snapped in a neat clip over Stiles’s knee.

The other instruments were still playing though, but their effect wasn’t as strong as the lyre.

Still, the little brown men were everywhere—circling in—and Stiles was not at 100%.

One of the poop-colored fuckers managed to pin his wrist to the fence. Stiles was kicking but then there was a blanket being thrown over him.

He heard cackling over the sounds of music, and the smell of metal came sharp into his nostrils.

The music was finally having him.

He was slipping.

Until the guttural roar shook the night.

The roar was a comfort. Stiles instantly relaxed. 

Later, when the blanket was ripped off his face, Stiles was humming. Scott was cupping his face.

Over his shoulder, Stiles saw Derek leap through the light of the street lamp with blood on his claws. He was in full-alpha form. A little brown man made the mistake of charging him. That dude lost his head.

“He thinks he’s so big and bad,” Stiles muttered.

“You okay?” Scott asked. He said it impatiently. He clearly wanted to go behead some satyrs, too.

“I’m—” Stiles started to say when his stomach lurched.

\- - -

He woke up in Beacon Hills hospital. He knew because Melissa McCall was standing over him in pink scrubs.

Still, when he looked down at his stomach—and it was flat—he might have freaked out. “What—?”

“She’s fine. Healthy little girl.”

“She’s—what?” Stiles took a breath and slumped back.

“Also, not furry. Well, not yet.” Melissa popped a kiss on his brow. “Congrats.”

“Where is she?”

“Derek has her, but I texted him when I saw you were waking up. You’ve been out for a while.”

Stiles didn’t know where to start with all of that. “Derek has her?” Because um, that did not compute.

But then he heard the familiar heartbeats coming down the hall—both Derek’s and the one that used to be inside of him. Which, just, holy fuck. Stiles covered his face with a hand.

The heartbeats came close and closer, and Stiles’s own heart was thudding off-rhythm.

When the door opened, Scott’s mom popped another kiss on his cheek. “I bet that’s him. I’ll give you guys a minute.” Then she ducked around the curtain.

Stiles didn’t see Derek until he was sliding through the gap in the curtain. Tucked into his arm, swaddled in white and not making a sound was the tiniest reddest-faced little person.

Stiles _wanted._ He reached out, arms open.

Derek stared at him.

Which just no. Not this game. Not now. “Give her to me. I need my baby. Now.”

Derek frowned, but carefully, he settled the baby into Stiles’s arms.

For a minute, all Stiles could do was clutch her. Because she was tiny and terribly pink, but Stiles also thought that her skin was clearer than other newborns he’d seen. He wondered if that was a werewolf thing, because there was no doubt about her being a wolf—Stiles could smell it, soft like daffodils and fresh paws and warm dirt. He buried his nose in her neck.

“She needs a name,” Derek said after a moment.

His voice was close, and when Stiles unstuck his nose from the baby, it was to see Derek directly on the other side of her. His nose was pressed against her other cheek.

“I meant to ask.” Except he hadn’t thought it would make a difference. “What was your mother’s name?”

“Carol.”

“Uh.” Not Stiles’s first choice. “What about Caroline?”

“Caroline,” Derek agreed, and he was still smashed against their daughter’s cheek, looking not remotely afraid. In fact, he looked supremely comfortable.

Caroline made a squishy noise, squirming against Stiles.

“So, you like her?” Stiles asked carefully.

“She’s perfect,” Derek snapped but then he frowned again, because clearly he hadn’t meant to be quite so sharp about it. “She smells like you—like us—like pack.”

“So all the other babies smell bad? That’s why you hate them.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Caroline and I went and visited the nursery earlier. It’s not just smell. All of the other babies were inferior. Their skin was ugly. They had squished up faces, and they just weren’t as beautiful, were they?” And by the end of that sentence, Derek was unmistakably cooing at their daughter.

“Oh my God.” Stiles gaped.

“What?” Derek’s voice was totally defensive.

“I think the Mother Shepherdess has been guiding me the whole time.”

“Stiles, there is no such thing as a—“

“Because I kept having dreams, and you were all happy and Super Dad in them, but then I’d wake up and you were baby-jealous and being your stalkerish self—and I just couldn’t fit it all together.”

“Dreams?” Derek was worriedly looking down at Caroline like he was seriously considering swiping her away from her cray-cray birth daddy.

“Just, like, you said you wanted me—but I didn’t believe you.”

Derek looked kind of pissed. “You’re my mate. I always want you. When the satyrs attacked… I thought I lost you. I should have been with you. With both of you.”

Stiles snorted. “Oh, don’t do that. I’m not a damsel.” And Stiles ran a hand across Caroline’s skin. So freaking soft. Perfect, like Derek said. “And nor is little Miss Caroline, because she’s a werewolf too, and she’s going to grow up to be super badass, aren’t you, baby girl?” She was back to sleeping but Stiles totally woke her up when he smooch-kissed her cheek. “On a different day, I would have handled it on my own.”

Derek looked like he wanted to argue but was holding back.

“I’m glad you were there,” Stiles said. “Just…”

“Just what?”

“I want our home to be like my home—when I was growing up. My parents were really happy.”

Derek replied in whisper. “Mine were too.”

“So I want to work on it. I don’t just want to be ‘mates,” I want you to be my best friend. I want to make you happy.”

“You do,” Derek said quickly, but then he took a breath, lifting his eyes to meet Stiles’s. “I… I don’t feel like I deserve that, but—“

“—but that’s not fair—“

“ _But_ I was going to say that since you… since I met you—since I realized you were my mate—the pain, the despair I used to feel—it faded. It was still there. Just it became a rain outside of my window instead of the storm I was drowning in.”

“That’s almost poetic.”

Derek gently but deliberately poked him.

It made Stiles smile. “I’m not expecting emotional miracles, but just that you… try.”

Derek nodded and Stiles took a long, relieved sigh. The up-and-down of his chest disturbed Caroline and she was totally frowning. Actually, the frown looked a lot like Derek’s.

Derek, meanwhile, had his eyes narrowed in on a card on the nightstand. Stiles watched as he pulled a pen out of his pocket. Then he was writing on the back of the card, and sharp blue lines were being shoved in Stiles’s face.

“I <3 U,” the card read.

“I think I love you too,” Stiles said, because um, shock.

Derek frowned and for a minute, Stiles thought he might accidentally have hurt Derek's feelings, but no. Derek added a “+ Caroline” at the bottom.

Stiles took the card from him. He drew a house around the text and drew three faces inside, two men and a little baby girl. They were all smiling. “That’s what I want.”

“Okay,” Derek agreed.

\- - -

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you're new to me, I have other [long Sterek stories](http://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=word_count&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=0&fandom_id=258526&user_id=Unloyal_Olio) you can read.


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